


Like the tick, tick, tock of the stately clock

by thesadchicken



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, WODEHOUSE P. G. - Works
Genre: Growing Old Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, almost like diary entries, or their thoughts throughout the years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 04:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18909241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: Glimpses of Jeeves and Bertie throughout the years. The longing, the love, the lust, the companionship – a life well-lived. A life lived together.





	Like the tick, tick, tock of the stately clock

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Cole Porter’s “Night and Day” – oh, Porter, you genius, how you toy with my heart.

_~ D A Y S_

                  ** _Day 1_**

‘I was sent by the agency, sir. I was given to understand that you required a valet.’

                 **_Day 54 | Bertie_**

He doesn’t like the white jacket and I bally well hope he doesn’t ask to throw it out. The man may be a genius and all that, but I will not be tyrannized in this manner. I mean to say, what?

                 **_Day 55 | Jeeves_**

Mr. Wooster has readily relinquished the fate of the white jacket to me. I have found that he is a very grateful young man, and what he lacks in strength of will he makes up for in kindness. I suspect I can make something of him.

                **_Day 140 | Bertie_**

Jeeves has done it again! Just when I thought the sitch. was absolutely hopeless, he fished the young master out of the soup. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

                **_Day 167 | Jeeves_**

I hear him talking to the cat as I prepare his breakfast. I find myself smiling – he is endearing, and I have not been careful, and I know I am already lost.

**_Day 255 | Bertie_ **

Yesterday, Jeeves – my man, you know – was standing in front of the window. He thought I was in the arms of that Morpheus chap, when really I was just lying in bed wishing I were in my valet’s arms. I don’t know why I pretended to sleep; it wasn’t very _preux chevalier_ and all that, I’m afraid. But when I saw him standing by the window like that I dared not move.

If you’ve never seen Jeeves’ silhouette against the night sky, then you have not experienced true wonder. It snatched the breath out of the Wooster lungs. I’m not frightfully good with words, and I’m no poet, so I can’t really say that he looked like this or that sort of flower. But I can say that it made the young master’s heart flutter to see Jeeves so untethered by protocol and etiquette, so comfortably leaning against the window, his grey eyes on the horizon beyond.

I felt this was a glimpse of the gentleman behind the myth, the beating heart beneath the godlike exterior. This was Jeeves the man, not Jeeves the valet.

What was he thinking? I wondered. What dashed clever thought was dancing around that great brain? His face was peaceful, the corners of his mouth upturned. Graceful as ever. By Jove, I would have given him my life if he’d asked for it.

But he never asked for anything. He floated in and out of these lonely rooms every day, and every day I yearned to hold his hand in mine, to say, ‘Jeeves, I wish I was yours.’ 

He left the room. I closed my eyes as he passed me by. The image of him standing by the window, lost in a daydream, remained with me until dawn.

                ** _Day 345 | Jeeves_**

Mr. Wooster has thanked me warmly for bringing his engagement to Miss Craye to an end. He does not know the true turmoil in my mind, the jealous rage that consumes me every time he finds himself somehow ensnared in a young lady’s web of matrimonial threats.

But I cannot ward them off eternally… can I?

**_Day 468 | Bertie_ **

I took a walk with Jeeves across Chuffnell Regis. I am sure there is no greater pleasure in life than this.

              ** _Day 502 | Jeeves_**

I disapprove of his music – a horrifying array of modern vulgarity – but his voice is the sweetest sound…

             ** _Day 544 | Bertie_**

I’m quite done with all this rannygazoo. How can a chap be expected to go about his day in this state? Jeeves is all I can think of. I’m sick with longing.

**_Day 603 | Jeeves_ **

There is nothing I enjoy more than taking care of him. It is agony and it is bliss, to love him the way I do.

**_Day 640 | Bertie_ **

He is perfect, and I am a worthless wreck.

            **_Day 641 | Jeeves_**

He is lovely, and I am unlovable.

            **_Day 756 | Bertie_**

Jeeves caught me staring at him this morning. It seemed to have a rummy effect on him.

            **_Day 796 | Jeeves_**

I cannot bear the strain of my affection for Mr. Wooster any longer.

**_Day 797 | Bertie_ **

I am the happiest man in the world.

**_Day 800 | Jeeves_ **

We are in his bed. The sheets are fresh and clean – I remember washing them yesterday, I remember him leaning against the doorframe, watching me, the sun bright against his back. I remember his hair, gleaming gold, haloed in the light of the dying day.

We are in his bed, limbs tangled, fingers intertwined. His chest is flushed, his cheeks pink. He reaches out and drags a slender finger across my lips, down my neck; it comes to rest over my heart. I am barely out of the clutches of passion, my body is warm and heavy and pliant under his tender touches. He looks up at me from under golden lashes, and his eyes, so blue, find me. They know me well, and yet they take me in as if for the first time.

‘Good God…’ he whispers, ‘you’re beautiful.’

My voice quivers when I answer. ‘You are perfect.’ 

He smiles, a Hyacinthian daydream. I pray the winds will spare us. Keep away, Zephyr, keep away from our perfect happiness and let me love him like this, always. He presses his nose into the pillow and hums, feigning bashfulness. My heart aches for him, even as I hold him. My darling boy – tousled hair and innocent smiles. And yet even now, as we lie together in his bed, I can hear the world outside roiling. The winds, the cruel winds – time and prying eyes and his aunt’s exigencies. I pull him closer.

‘Jeeves?’ he breathes into my neck.

I have nothing to say, I have nothing to offer him but my arms, my embrace, and my entire life. My fears he must not know of: he must remain untroubled, peaceful, tousled hair and innocent smiles. But I am foolish to think that he does not speak the language of my silence.

‘Don’t worry, old fruit,’ he places a kiss on my cheek. ‘We’re together now. Nothing in the world can tear us apart, what?’

His usual unwavering optimism, that unblemished _naïveté_ – Bertie Wooster, kind and gentle and made of sunlight. I look at him. I know him so well, but I look at him as if for the first time.

‘Nothing in the world,’ I echo.

 

_~ Y E A R S_

**_Year 3 | Bertie_ **

He catches the young master’s eye from across the room, and he tilts his handsome head to the side. I point to the dancing couples, swaying like dandelions in the wind. I mouth the words ‘ _dance with me’_. He shakes his head, all stuffed frog and disapproving glares. He does not tolerate this sort of behavior from young Bertram, not in public.

I make my way through the crowd and stand by his side. He is horrified, although he hides it well. Oh, but I know my Jeeves. ‘Sir?’ he asks, when what he really wants to say is ‘biff off, you idiot, before someone notices!’

I sneak my hand behind his back and pinch his _derriere_ – an indiscretion I have grown quite fond of. He takes a deep breath. I rather enjoy teasing him, don’t you know – but not quite as much as he enjoys teasing me.

‘I hear Miss Glossop is in search of a dance partner,’ he whispers, just loud enough for me to hear.

My eyes widen. ‘Jeeves! You wouldn’t dare!’

He puckers his lips in that infuriating way of his. ‘And I gathered from Miss Basset that she and Mr. Fink-Nottle have had a quarrel and may no longer be engaged.’

I shake my head at him. ‘Now look here!’

‘Or shall I inform Lady Worplesdon that you have been avoiding Miss Hartley all evening?’

‘Threatening me with Aunt Agatha… a blow below the belt, Jeeves! And if I were to dance with one of these, er, charming young ladies, wouldn’t you be jealous?’

With a raise of the eyebrows and a glimmer of mischief in the eye, he challenges me. Well! It is time this Wooster put his foot down! I am half-amused, half-stung by this game we play, but I cross the room and take Honoria Glossop by the hand.

‘Will you dance with me, Honoria, old girl?’

She nods indifferently. I feel her fingers dig into my shoulders like claws. I stare at the walls, trying to ignore the bruises she is leaving on my feet where she steps on them. We have only been dancing for a few minutes when I hear Jeeves’ polite cough, and his voice, ‘an urgent message for you, sir.’

My chest swells with pride. He regrets! I savour my victory. ‘Not now, Jeeves, can’t you see I’m busy.’

‘I’m afraid it is a matter of utmost importance, sir.’

I look at him, and that is all it takes. That is always what it takes. Just one look at my man is enough to bring me to my knees.  I let go of Honoria and follow him out of the room. We are in some vestibule, and he leans towards me, touches my hip, whispers into my ear, ‘I have tried to deny it, but I am a jealous man. I cannot bear the thought of you with another. You are mine, and mine only. Promise it.’

It sends a shiver down the Wooster spine. ‘I promise. Always.’

‘And you must know that I am yours, that I will be yours until my dying day.’

Our eyes meet. We have made our vows, and we are deliriously happy.

**_Year 6 | Jeeves_ **

‘Good lord!’ he moans, as our bodies find each other. I am heat and pleasure, I am fire and passion, I am burning for him, against him, inside him, and in these moments I know only him, I am lost in him, and I love him endlessly…

**_Year 11 | Bertie_ **

Jeeves brought me an early birthday present: she is orange and purring as she sleeps in my lap. We shall call her Madame Eulalie.

**_Year 14 | Jeeves_ **

His head rests against my thigh. The field is empty; the trees conceal us. I hear his words from years ago, and I smile as I play with his hair.

 _Nothing in the world can tear us apart_.

**_Year 18 | Bertie_ **

‘Where in the bally world is my bally lighter?’

‘In your hand, my dear.’

‘What absolute rot. My hat is in my hand.’

‘Your other hand, dearest.’

‘Oh. Yes, well – er, that is, I mean to say – thank you, Reggie.’

**_Year 22 | Jeeves_ **

I watch him struggle with the kettle. I should be annoyed – his hair is greying at the temples, and yet he is unable to make a cup of tea on his own. But I watch, and all I feel is affection for him, for his gaucheness, for the innocuous expletives he mumbles.

He looks up at me. ‘Go,’ he says, ‘you need to rest.’

I purse my lips. ‘You will not burn yourself again?’

‘No, everything is oojah-cum-spiff.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do. Now rest.’

I lie down on the sofa. My back and legs ache from standing – years of it. The cat jumps onto my stomach and sleeps there. I try to read, but the noise from the kitchen draws me away from the pages; I listen, and I feel my heart flutter at the thought of him, slender fingers reaching for teacups, a song on his lips. He walks into the room a few minutes later holding a tray, two fuming cups. He is smiling as he hands me one.

‘You see, I’m not as useless as one would think.’

I place my hand on his shoulder, and he leans in for a kiss. ‘My dear, you are a wonder,’ I say playfully, but I mean it, truly.

**_Year 24 | Bertie_ **

I’m on my knees, pleasing my man, and we’re having a spiffing good time until my bally thighs start hurting. Bertram W. isn’t as young as he once was – I’m no fool, I know this, but it puts a fellow in quite a gloomy mood to be reminded of it.

Then he sees me wince, and he knows I’m in pain – he knows everything, my Reggie. For a moment I fear he will ask me to stop, but he is a lot more cunning than that.

‘I will have you on the bed, _now_ ,’ he purrs, possessive and commanding.

It makes the Wooster heart pound and the lower regions stiffen. He helps me to my feet. I give him a grateful smile. He kisses me, and suddenly we are young again.

**_Year 27 | Jeeves_ **

I watch as he plays the piano, and I think: _there has never been a handsomer man than he_.

**_Year 30 | Bertie_ **

I know that they look at us and whisper to each other, ‘oh, there goes old Wooster with his manservant Jeeves. Quite the eccentric birds, what?’

I am aware that some suspect – and others know – the truth. Bingo, Tuppy, my cousin Angela, Horace the doorman (whose father Jarvis also knew, I believe). We don’t speak of it, they don’t either, and everything is as it should be. But I feel the children’s curious eyes when we visit Brinkley Court, I hear the laughter in their young voices when they say, ‘Yes, Uncle Bertie and Jeeves came to visit.’

People know us from afar. ‘Jeeves and Wooster’, they call us. ‘Odd but harmless,’ they say. They leave us be. They sneer sometimes, but they leave us be.

I don’t think I mind it at all. In fact, I rather like it. ‘Jeeves and Wooster’, yes, it has quite a ring to it, don’t you think?

**Author's Note:**

>  _Like the tick, tick, tock of the stately clock_  
>  As it stands against the wall  
> Like the drip, drip, drip of the raindrops  
> When the summer shower is through  
> So a voice within me keeps repeating you, you, you
> 
> Night and day, you are the one  
> Only you beneath the moon or under the sun  
> Whether near to me or far  
> It's no matter, darling, where you are  
> I think of you 
> 
> \- Cole Porter, "Night and Day"


End file.
